


Fantasy

by Oldflowers



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Romance, Canon-Typical Violence, Drug Use, Falling In Love, Forced Prostitution, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:54:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26889952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Oldflowers/pseuds/Oldflowers
Summary: It's an illusion in a bottle, the two of them untouched within. Gloss feels a kiss ghosting his lips, sleeps in one bed for the rest of his life, and has one man. Just one. It's unreal — pure fantasy. It can never actually happen.
Relationships: Augustus Braun/Gloss, Blight/Gloss, Gloss (Hunger Games)/Original Male Character(s)
Kudos: 5





	1. Nikola

* * *

**YEAR OF THE 63RD GAMES**

* * *

**JULY 27TH, 2300**

Six years ago, Gloss Rosewood watched an instructor’s broadsword split the supple rubber of a dummy’s stomach. Blue bowels, clear blood, and slick goo spilled onto the black marble floor, splashing the instructor’s boots. To all three-dozen students, it looked just like the ‘real thing’. It wasn’t on television, it wasn’t in a dream, it was right in _front_ of them. 

The bloodbath, the direwolves, and the eruption of the White Mountain teach Gloss that they were wrong. Moments after the volcano erupts, the once-ivory wasteland of the frozen arena is ravaged by thick black smoke and suffocating ash. The booming eruption echoes in his ears long after the lava starts spidering down the White Mountain in dangerous red rivers. Three tributes are killed in the blast, but Gloss, Shimmer, and Nikola don’t hear the cannons.

It’s on this night, taking refuge in a snow ditch around a small fire, that they look into the sky and learn there is only one tribute left. Once the soot settles and the smoke clears, a flock of snow hawks attack from the east, driving the alliance toward the White Mountain. One of the birds rips into Shimmer’s shoulder, splitting her flesh deep enough that even the stoic killer herself can’t choke back her scream. Gloss takes it down with a swift knife, and the rest fly suddenly away. 

Shimmer is a round-faced girl, blue-eyed with thick black hair that she spins into twin buns and secures with periwinkle ribbons. A prodigy from One, it’s no surprise she's a part of Gloss’ alliance. The unexpected ally — the wildcard — is Nikola. Native to Three, he resembles neither of them. Coal-black tight curls and deep brown eyes, he looks like something Gloss has never seen. Different, unique. 

Nikola tends to Shimmer’s shoulder, dark brows furrowed against faintly tan skin brunt red by the cold. Shimmer behaves the way she always does around him, shrinking away from his careful hands as if certain she’ll contract a District Three disease. 

Before the Games, Nikola was something of a medic in Three. He’d tend to factory injuries and send workers back onto the floor, doubtlessly obligated to make his treatments expedient. On the first day of training, Gloss found him grinding nameless plants and compounds into a healing salve, surrounded by observers from outer Districts. Willing to share his knowledge in lieu of keeping it for himself, Nikola was unique even beyond his physical appearance. Nikola was careful, deft-fingered, the smiling type — and Gloss invited him into the Career alliance before consulting anybody else.

Shimmer doesn’t have it in her to warm up to him — not even as he pads gauze down her gaping wounds and bandages her oozing flesh. Shimmer winces under Nikola’s touch, knocking his hand away as if shooing away an Avox that’s come too close. 

Gloss glances up at Nikola as Shimmer closes her eyes against the pain, emerald green on Nikola’s bottomless brown. He slowly pats the knife in his belt. Nikola draws a quiet breath as he wraps shimmer in gauze. Gloss can tell he knows very well what he’s insinuating. Only one other tribute remains — a boy from Twelve — and Shimmer’s injury is enough to count her out of the fight.

They could do it alone, Gloss and Nikola. Nikola, who laughed at Gloss’ interview jokes while the rest of the alliance glared. Nikola, who stopped Gloss after training and told him he had a sister too. And they talked about her — Samantha — over a roasted arctic hare on the third freezing night. They talked about Cashmere as they laid pressed next to each-other, their eyes on the Cornucopia ceiling as they willed their thin wool blankets to bring them heat. 

Gloss shouldn’t feel this way, either; shouldn’t want to bring this boy to the final two with him. He supposes it’s only a matter of decency. Gloss knows how to kill someone painlessly. He wants that for Nikola. Nikola, who’s shown Gloss more compassion than he’s ever known, deserves not to suffer when it comes time for him to die.

Nikola glances down at the knife beneath Gloss’ fingertips, meets Gloss’ eyes, and shakes his head ‘no’. It’s one of the strange things about Nikola that Gloss doesn’t think he’ll ever understand — that odd conviction against betrayal. 

They take a rugged path up the White Mountain, trekking toward a cave that they believe to be occupied. Bounding over steaming lava rivers, the trio watch curiously as scarlet magma leaks into the wasteland far below. It’s a wonder that the cave stands unaffected. A seemingly purposeful overhang of jagged stone juts out over the cave mouth, splitting a river of lava into two streams that flow on either side of it. It’s the final leap they have to make.

It occurs in a snap: Gloss reaches the cave mouth in an effortless bound and sinks his knife into the cowering 12 boy’s eye. The kid’s breath leaves him in a whimper — another sound that Gloss will likely hear in his nightmares.

“Is he dead?” Shimmer bellows over the howling wind. Holding her injured shoulder, she stands next to Nikola at the edge of the lava, both of them squinting at Gloss through the flurrying snow. The 12 boy’s cannon is her answer. 

Then she spins on her feet and sweeps Nikola’s legs right out from under him. 

Nikola falls halfway onto the snowy ground, flecks of snow cresting over his shoulders on impact. Though his dark eyes blow impossibly wide, no sound leaves him as his lower body sinks into the shallow river of molten metal and stone. 

Gloss yanks his last knife from his belt and sends it thudding into Shimmer’s chest before she can ready her spear. 

Strangely, there is no sense of victory in any of it. There is no thrill as Gloss jumps over the lava, landing between Nikola’s writhing body and Shimmer’s twitching corpse. The thunder of Shimmer’s cannon doesn’t faze him. The sick squelch of blood as Gloss pulls his blade from her heart doesn’t faze him either — not while Nikola watches him with desperate eyes, struggling to steady his breaths. 

It’s the final two. Gloss stands above Nikola, his boots planted near his head in the supple snow. He doesn’t even ready his knife.

Nikola isn't screaming; isn't fighting, crying, or struggling at all. His legs are in lava and his shirt is on fire, but he's halfway in the snow, slowly moving his hands to rest behind his head. He's done that every night Gloss has known him, tucking his hands beneath his head when the night was bearable; tucking his arm under Gloss' neck when they had to share warmth. It was the three of them: Shimmer behind Gloss, Nikola in front, his back pressed tight against Gloss' chest. Shimmer wanted a body between her and Nikola; Gloss just wanted to wake up in the morning to someone he truly enjoyed.

Nikola’s body jerks on occasion, screams splitting his throat when the pain climaxes. Inexplicably, he begins talking to Gloss through every bit of it. Just _talking_. 

“To tell you the truth, I really thought I understood what the Games might be like,” Nikola manages. His shoulders twitch and a scream erupts from his lungs, the shrill and bitten sound of a dying animal. Then he scrunches his face and clears his throat against the smoke of his own burning flesh. “It’s not just being scared. Or dying. Nothing easy like that. It’s torture.”

Gloss grimaces. “I can put this knife in your heart and it’ll be over,” he tells him. The weapon is readied, poised over his shoulder and aimed for the chest. One flick is all it would take. 

Nikola is silent. His brows are drawn tight, but his eyes never shut, his gaze fixed on the powder-white sky.

“I can stop the pain,” Gloss implores. “I can do it right now.”

Nikola absently shakes his head, black hair matting in the snow. “I was an idiot. Such an idiot.”

“Nikola—”

 _“No!”_ Nikola roars. His voice cracks painfully as dense fire crawls the length of his body, slow and violent. “I want to see the light when it’s over. I want to see that light that everyone talks about.”

Gloss tears away his gaze. This is different from blood or knives or pleas for mercy. It’s a voluntary resignation to suffering — something Gloss can’t interpret; something he can’t begin to fathom. There’s a heavy silence for a long time — silence, of course, besides the chokes, gasps, yelps, and brutal mountain wind. Gloss sits on a jutting mountain stone and tugs the hair at his temples, willing himself not to faint. The minutes drag by. Hours, maybe.

“Gloss,” Nikola whimpers. Impossibly, he picks up his head, slow and shaky, and looks Gloss right in the eyes. “You’re my friend, right?”

An avalanche of rock and ice flattens Nikola’s head into the ground. It’s a violent flash of red before brilliant white powder spills onto the gore, blanketing the body, dousing the flames, and melting into the lava. It obliterates Nikola. Obliterates whatever Gloss’ answer might have been. 

The cannonfire is instant. It roars like a storm and quakes every mountain, infinitely more jarring than even the eruption. Gloss is deaf to the announcement of his victory. He’s blind to the medics who surround him on the hovercraft. He’s numb to their urgent touch.

It’s an odd kind of feeling. Gloss only sees Nikola’s blood, only feels horrible chills consuming his flesh, and only hears Nikola asking him, _‘You’re my friend, right?’_

**:::**

**OCTOBER 13TH, 2300, 8:36 PM**

For the splendor of the two-story behemoth, Gloss’ house in Victor’s Village will never be any more than that: a house, not a home, earned with the blood and tears of the tributes whose souls he reaped. 

The bedroom is furnished yet empty of spirit. The walls are blue as a midnight sky, speckled with white and silver constellations that flicker when touched by moonlight. The bed is larger than he could ever need, adorned with silken blue sheets and heavy grey furs sourced from the wildlife of his District. 

Blight Bythesda is half-clothed in the dark, staring down at the container in his hands as if reading a novel. Gloss stands feet away from him, nude because that’s how Blight needs him to be. Before them is a massive darkwood dresser crowned by a mirror trimmed with swirling silver and gold. They both take great care not to look at their reflections. Gloss isn’t entirely certain of why. 

“I’m going to try to make your first time memorable for something other than the fact that you were obligated to do it.”

Gloss looks at Blight sideways. The man’s gaze is dark and earthy; as brown as the trees that compose his District. His fingers skirt the circumference of the silver container he holds in his hand, his touch as gentle as his eyes and velvety voice. Gloss was only 10 when Blight won his Games. It’s a distant, faint memory. He can only recall that Blight looked far younger in the arena, even as he forced the blade of his hatchet down into Justinia Cross’ lilly-white throat.

“I had to do it like this, too, for my first time,” Blight continues. “I was only out of the arena for about a month before they trained me to be a Courtesan.”

“What was it like?”

“Impersonal.” Blight gives an absent, soft shake of the silver container, and it rattles the contents. “She told me to take a Red, so I did. It was over fairly soon after that.”

“I don’t know what that is,” Gloss says. “A ‘red.’” 

Blight smiles at him. It’s a strange kind of expression, if only for the fact that it’s gentle; compassionate. He presses a button on the side of the circular case in his hand, and it flips open to an array of pills assorted in small compartments. The pills are color-coded: red, orange, yellow, green, purple, blue, and black. Blight takes a sideways step closer to Gloss and pulls a hand through his thick brown hair.

“Most Courtesans call this the Rainbow.”

“Is there a technical term?” Gloss asks.

A teasing smile ghosts Blight’s lips, and he looks Gloss in the eyes with purpose. His gaze never strays, not like the stylists at the Center who ogled him in the nude. “Panacea. Plural _and_ singular,” he says, and it reminds Gloss, quite painfully, of Nikola.

“Red is a vasodilator; it gets it up for you when the time comes. Orange is a stimulant — caffeine, that sort of thing. It’s essentially a highly concentrated espresso shot for when you don’t have any energy otherwise. Yellow is a benzodiazepine; calms you down if you ever…”

“Panic?” Gloss tries. 

Blight looks at him. “I’ve seen it ruin lives.”

Blight refocuses on the Panacea, a shudder coursing down his spine as if dispelling a memory. “Green induces orgasm. Chew it, then swallow. Instant effect. Purple is an empathogen of sorts. Makes you blissful, sensitive to touch. Lovey-dovey and the like. Blue’s a barbiturate — knocks you out cold.” There’s a twitch of Blight’s lips; a pensive furrow of brows. “Just... go easy on that one. Trust me. The sleep isn’t worth the addiction.”

“It sounds like you're speaking from experience.” 

Blight laughs — a gentle, cheery sound that shouldn’t fit the moment but strikes Gloss, nonetheless, like music. Even so, the man doesn't address it. 

“Black’s the morphling — don’t even get started on that if you have a choice.”

“You don’t have to worry about that,” Gloss says, and it’s true. It conjures a memory of the worst pain he’s felt in his life: the excruciating suffering of Nikola popping his arm back into place — the scream Gloss made, the gentle hands smoothing over his shoulder to assuage the pain. 

The empty husks of Six morphlings have long been enough to scare Gloss away from the drug entirely. Somehow, he’s convinced that he could handle any pain just by memory alone. Nikola’s touch, from shoulder to spine to throbbing muscle. His searching brown eyes and thoughtful voice saying, _‘Hey. You alright?’_

Blight’s fingertips ghost his bare shoulder. Eyes like soil, dark oak, the center of a sunflower. “You okay?” he asks, and he smiles, soft as velvet, thoughtful as — _Nikola’s_ eyes. He seems to do that often; look at Gloss in a way that makes the tips of his ears burn. 

Blight closes the silver case and slides it into Gloss’ hand with a brush of fingertips on his palm. His touch is gentle-rough, calloused due to wood and hatchet handles. It’s the only time Blight looks lower than Gloss’ eyes. His gaze burns a trail down the open, naked skin. Politely, Blight clears his throat. 

“Do you need a minute before we get started?” 

“I’m alright.”

“Good,” Blight whispers. 

Then he strips until he’s bare, shameless and open, steady with the practice of a man who’s done it a thousand times. He smiles that warm smile over his shoulder, tipping his head towards the mattress. 

Translucent white curtains glow softly with the moonlight that leaks through the blinds. The gentle glitter ghosts the dips and curves of Blight’s tawny skin, kissing the sparse, dark birthmarks swirling down his spine. It’s the very first time Gloss lets his eyes wander the man’s body — and even as Blight produces a vial of oil from his discarded clothes, Gloss nearly finds himself more contented than anxious. 

Blight settles onto his back on the bed, crowned by the vast headboard and haloed by fuzzy-soft furs. He grins softly, reassuringly, and when Gloss musters the confidence to settle between his legs, Blight brings an arm around his back and smooths his hand up and down the ridges of his spine. 

“I think we should start off slow,” Blight murmurs. There’s a faint scent of pine on his skin; the half-sweet aroma of earthy oil in his beard. “Do you mind if I kiss you?”

It'll be his first kiss, fuzzy-soft with the brush of Blight’s dark brown beard; very likely sweet as sugar when Gloss opens his eyes to a gentle District Seven gaze. His flesh tingles and reddens where Blight smooths his palms up his thighs, his chest, his stomach. Muscle by muscle, Gloss loosens inBlight’s care — then Blight smooths up his collar, up his burning neck, and cups his red-hot face. 

Blight kisses him sweet, unhurried; touches him tender, tastes like a dream. Kindling-hot, bone-melting, as sublime as make-believe. Gloss curls his fingers in chestnut hair and pulls him closer. Gets a sweet moan and languid slide of tongue. He wants to commit this moment to memory: the gentle hands, the white-hot breaths, and he combats the urge to wonder when he became so sentimental.

“You’re doing so good,” Blight murmurs, pulling back from rosy lips just close enough for Gloss to be enraptured by his eyes. Blight is an unwound man before him: slick skin, red face, tousled hair and wild beard. There’s a breathless, burning moment of hot, naked skin. Gloss is still bent on top of him, ready and waiting and anxious as Blight gathers his bearings. A moonbeam flickers on the blacks of his eyes. 

“I think you’re ready. Don’t you?” Blight breathes. He does that thing again — that _smile_. Nikola-soft. 

In the shadow, velvet, midnight-blue, the world is surreal. It’s dark as nights in the Cornucopia when Nikola laid on his back next to him, black curls brushing at the bridge of his nose and haloing his kind, pleasant face. He was Gloss’ only friend -- the only person he knew would never sink a blade into his heart. And Gloss sees him, Nikola, in Blight’s prone body. Conjures the memory of the cotton candy soap the boy had loved from the Capitol showers.

 _“Jesus,”_ Gloss breathes. 

He reaches down the thick downy furs at the other man’s side. Finds the vial, flips the cap, and kisses Blight deep, hard, and steady. His fingers drip with sweet-slick oil as he reaches between them both.

Blight breathes out an agonized moan. There’s a whisper of skin as Blight turns his cheek into the furs, panting hard as Gloss prepares him slow and gentle. It isn’t long before he’s pushing down against Gloss, his sweet mouth open, being undone from the inside as he tumbles deeper and deeper. Gloss slides into him, hesitant, bliss-drunk. The moonlight turns Blight’s bare neck opalescent. 

“Hold it,” Blight breathes out. He throws his head back on a hard thrust, gasping for breath even as he grins on a blissed-out laugh. “Take my —”

“ _Oh_ ,” Gloss says. Then he obliges him, and the loud, keening moan pulled from deep in Blight’s chest hits his very core.

Blight gasps beneath him and comes in a massive wave, his legs tensing around Gloss’ waist as he shakes beneath his weight, pulse after pulse dragging Gloss into oblivion after him. Gloss is starstruck, rocking into him deep and long until the two of them throw their heads back and gasp for oxygen through the agony of an orgasm drawn impossibly on.

Gloss falls boneless on top of him. He feels more than hears Blight’s chuckle as he gently pushes him off to the side. Falling back onto the silken furs feels like spilling his bones onto a soft, cold cloud. 

The world around them is glittery-dark; a swimming swirl of moonlight and constellations and silver-bright statuettes peering down from the highest shelves. There’s a fine trace of silver over the scar on Blight’s chest. It looks like a constellation itself, each faded stitch a burning star, a pattern, a painting, a line of poetry. In the fading euphoria, Gloss sees Blight for who he truly is; loses the vision of Nikola he’d projected onto Blight’s eyes. Here, in the clarity of night, Gloss finds that Blight's hair is straight brown in lieu of a crown of onyx curls. 

Blight smiles warmly at him. Perfect, glittering Capitol teeth that Nikola could never afford. “Who were you thinking about?”

Gloss hesitates to answer. He can’t explain why he conjured the image of his dead friend while Blight was right beneath him, open and beautiful and holding him tight. Blight’s expression sobers, and it’s like the look in Nikola’s eyes when Gloss screamed beneath his touch: patient, compassionate, genuinely concerned. His rough fingers rub circles into the skin of Gloss’ thigh.

“I don’t tell things like that,” Blight says. “It’s safe with me.” 

_‘The blizzard’s roaring pretty loud. I don’t think the mics can hear us,’_ Nikola murmured in the frigid dark. There was a nick on Nikola’s lower lip, scarred over from a punch to the teeth. Gloss can’t remember if he killed the boy who gave it to him. Suddenly, he hopes that he did.

“The boy from Three,” Gloss says finally.

“Nikola,” Blight murmurs. Gloss raises himself to a shaky elbow. There’s something otherworldly about Nikola’s name on Blight’s tongue; as striking and strange as if Nikola had spoken the name himself. He finds his eyes stuck on Blight’s image, trapped on his shadowed body like frost on glass.

“It makes sense,” Blight whispers into the dark. His gaze is focused on the ceiling, glazed over and sated. Then he tells Gloss, unbidden, that he thought of a girl whom he could never have — someone he shouldn’t have been thinking of at all. Gloss doesn’t ask who it is. 

Instead, he kisses him again, hurried and hot, and feels how Blight smiles against his lips. Blight rolls him onto his back and straddles him there, built and heavy and warm on Gloss’ sensitive skin. Gloss touches him the way he might’ve touched Nikola; rubs his thumbs into his back and presses him atom-close. He tries to imagine how Nikola would feel on him; tries to conjure the sensation of black curls brushing his forehead; the aroma of cotton candy and chemicals and the unyielding scent of Three. 

It almost blots out the image of Nikola’s head being smashed into brilliant white snow. 

Almost. 

It’s still what Gloss sees when he closes his eyes.


	2. Augustus

* * *

**YEAR OF THE 67TH GAMES**

* * *

**JULY 4TH, 2304, 1:56 PM**

“Tell me why you volunteered.”

Hypnos Jewelsmith huffs bemusedly, her hands poised on her hips. Short blue hair sits in curls atop her head, nudging into her brows and giving her sharp nose a pixie-like quality. She sways as the Capitol Train follows a tight curve. “I thought you were going to ask us something important. What about our weapon of choice? Our greatest strengths?”

Gloss, who sits broadly on a blue sofa, ignores her. Cashmere, perched on the edge of a dining table, surveys her tribute with rapt attention, judging her with watchful green eyes. Both tributes, Hypnos Jewelsmith and Augustus Braun, are standing before them, shoulder-to-shoulder as Gloss directed. Under Gloss’ observant gaze, the boy is solid granite and the girl is quickly becoming antsy. She’s stick-thin and unimposing in every way. Gloss pins her for an archer.

Hypnos impatiently glares at him, her hands tightening into fists. “What? Say someth—” 

“I volunteered for glory,” Augustus interrupts, looking Gloss straight on. It’s impressively direct — especially for how he looks. Muscular, broad-shouldered, and sturdy, his face is strikingly soft and round, his blondish hair slicked back in a way that makes him look almost kind. More friendly than he could possibly be.

Gloss smiles. Augustus isn’t much younger than himself. Just minutes ago, he saw him standing among the 18 year-old boys, dapper in a powder-white tunic that made him look like an idol stolen from Olympus.

“Glory,” Gloss echoes. “Good answer. Honest.” Ghosting his thumb over his bottom lip, he looks the tribute up and down. It’s clear to him that he’s a swordsman — likely a nimble one, possibly favoring shorter blades. 

A shade of amusement glows in Augustus’ blue eyes. Gloss has a manufactured reputation for being a brutal-tongued poet with bountiful sex to spare. It’s purely fictional — a tool to explain his numerous sexual escapades within the Capitol. Judging by Augustus’ whisper-soft smirk, it's clear that he's already beginning to draw his own conclusions about Gloss. Perhaps Gloss observed him a beat too long. 

“How many years have you trained?” Gloss asks, keeping a judicious tone. 

“Seven years,” says Augustus. 

Gloss raises a brow. “Since eleven,” he remarks. He takes in Augustus’ tailored posture. The tribute’s hands are folded properly behind his back, his chin raised, his spine straight. “They’re training kids younger and younger.”

“Ivolunteered to bring glory to _District One,_ ” Hypnos interrupts. It’s exactly what she thinks Gloss wants to hear. “I perfected the art of the crossbow when I was only ten. I have the fastest reload speed in the Academy—”

Gloss loses interest quickly. Hypnos isn’t his tribute to mentor. 

Though her personality leaves much to be desired, Hypnos is beautiful in an otherworldly way. Her face glitters with distinctive dark eyes, her mopish blue hair clashing curiously with the silver butterfly tattoos dotting the back of her neck. Her token, a long pendulum on a silver chain, dangles at her collarbone. She’ll be easy for Cashmere to market — with such distinctive features, Gloss knows Cashmere will hardly have to try.

Hypnos off-handedly mentions that she and Augustus attended the Academy together. She doesn’t mention to what extent — she’s quick to continue on about her prestigious family — but whether the two of them sparred together or not, it seems Hypnos developed a fancy for Augustus somewhere along the way. 

She leans on Augustus as they view the reapings, teases him into touching her hair, and deliberately brushes his fingers when she asks him to pass her a drink. Before she retires for the night, Hypnos emerges from her quarters and pours herself a glass of sparkling water, murmuring a sultry goodnight to her partner as she sets off down the hall with wiggling hips.

The booth door shuts soundlessly behind Gloss, closing him and Augustus into the cramped space. The world beyond the small train booth is dark. Sapphire-black nightfall stains the outside a haunting color. They sit across from one-another, Augustus straight-backed, Gloss with his legs crossed and a hand to his lips in thought.

"A girlfriend is the last thing you need in the arena.”

"A boyfriend is the last thing _she_ needs," Augustus counters. "Half of the Games is about using people's weaknesses against them. If I can make her trust me, I can make her do what I want. Catch her unaware; use her as a tool." 

It would be scary to anyone else. Spectacularly, it begins to strike Gloss as alluring. The dimmest of schoolgirls can tell Augustus for his beauty, but after a life of celebrity, Gloss became disenchanted with it. He spent what felt like an eternity chasing others' basest desires, watching them fawn over his own body. After so long of being sold as a toy, the very concept of lust began to puzzle him like it never had.

Augustus is the opposite of Nikola: outspoken, audacious, cunning, Machiavellian in opposition to Nikola’s guileless warmth. A mirror of the boy Gloss used to be. 

“The Capitol will eat it up if it’s a convincing show," Gloss finally concedes. "Wild romance — pretty girl, handsome guy. Textbook short-lived fairytale.”

"Exactly," Augustus says, his gaze is hard, but not petulant. “I wouldn’t be here if I couldn’t strategize.”

Gloss joylessly smiles. "Then I'm glad that you can. Can you kill?"

"Kill. Torture.” Augustus shrugs. “I’m not afraid of blood.”

"Your only job is to make the death blow. Taking it slow will only counteract your strategy.”

Augustus furrows his brows. "The Capitol loves violence.”

“The Capitol loves a _character_ ,” Gloss corrects. “We’re building you a character, right? You're a nice, good guy who loves the Capitol and wants to win the Games. That means quick kills and ignoring the bodies. Bloodlust isn't sexy."

Augustus adjusts himself into a more comfortable position. “That's my angle, isn't it? Sexy.”

If it weren’t for the Capitol’s judgment of Augustus’ character, _sexy_ is exactly the angle Gloss would take. Earlier in the evening, Gloss saw him on television waving at One’s adoring crowd like royalty, looking like nothing less than an angel floating among the squalor of the earth. Gloss stood onstage in his shadow. _‘Well, isn’t he just lovely?_ ’ Flickerman remarked. _‘Augustus Braun, District One’s latest male volunteer! He looks like the kind of boy you’d introduce to your parents.’_

“Pure,” Gloss decides. He quiets Augustus with a raised hand. “Not naive — _pure_. Competent, intelligent, effective. Incorruptible.”

“And when I take out Hypnos?” Augustus counters. “Betrayal is about the most corrupt thing you can do.”

“Then take her to the final two. Kill her then. She’ll think it’s a fair fight, but we both know you’ll have the upper hand,” Gloss proposes. It spits in the face of everything Nikola held dear: honesty, integrity — _anything_ but this. “Charm her with stories about what you have to come home to. Make her feel safe. She needs to be _infatuated._ ”

A star flickers on Augustus’ eyes. “You want me to break her guard down.”

“Maybe even get her to _want_ you to win,” Gloss confirms. “It won’t work if you ask her outright. That’s not something your character would _do_. When you get out of those Games, you want the Capitol to think you’re the boy who loved Hypnos to the very end.”

Augustus squints at him, considerate. Judging by his expression, he isn’t wholly convinced.

“The Games don’t end when you win them,” Gloss exasperates. It’s a truth that runs deeper than Augustus knows. It’s something Gloss wasn’t told — not when he trained, and not when he sat in this booth, hungry and stupid like the boy across from him. “If you’re going to do this, it’s in your best interest to keep up the angel act forever. You’ve got a good thing going. You don’t want to fuck it up.”

“I won’t.” Augustus’ eyes are shrewd, focused, glittery-blue. Not for the last time, Gloss dwells on it.

“I want you to get some rest. I don’t expect you to get this down immediately."

“You shouldn’t doubt me.”

“I want you back alive,” Gloss says through his teeth. “I’m not cutting corners and risking your life to protect your pride. It’s my job to make sure you win.” 

Augustus breathes a joyless laugh. “Cut the shit, Gloss. You just want to revive your reputation after your last tribute died in the bloodbath.”

Yelping, sputtering, an arrow to the heart. Silver Beaubois looked a little like Shimmer.

It’s painfully clear Augustus doesn’t believe his own words — rather, he’s afraid his words are accurate. It’s the only clue he’s given Gloss that he _is,_ ultimately, _just_ a kid. No less doubtful, reliant, or insecure than the boys he stood with in the Reaping Square.

In the loaded silence, Gloss observes Augustus and sees him twice. First, critically. The boy is proud and arrogant and is bound to give Gloss hell at every turn. Then, organically. His gaze stops on his hair, his eyes, his mouth. Suddenly, Gloss wants to learn about his background. Who was the little girl who hugged his leg outside the Visiting Room? Who was the dark-skinned boy who entered just after her?

“You’re afraid I don’t actually care.”

“I’m not afraid of anything.”

“That’s a lie,” Gloss says immediately. “Tell yourself that as much as you want, but deep down, you hope that I value your life beyond my own interests. I _know_ you. I _was_ you. The only thing you know for sure is that you _can_ win the Games, but you _might not._ And you want someone to take care of your family if you don’t.”

Augustus doesn’t respond, an answer in and of itself.

Gloss leans forward, just this side of too close. “Believe me. The instant I first stepped foot on this train, I wondered the hundreds of things I’d forgotten to wonder before. I wondered who would keep my sister safe. I wondered if she could make it on her own. And unlike you, I didn’t have anyone I could rely on.”

Augustus huffs a joyless laugh. “What, do you expect me to believe I can rely on _you?”_

“It wouldn’t hurt you if you tried.”

Augustus looks at him hard, processing, thinking. “I can’t force myself to believe you.” 

“Then believe this: if you win — and I have full faith that you will — you won’t have to rely on _anyone_.” 

Sighing, Augustus averts his focus to the window. A silver ring of moonlight glints on his eyes as he watches the galaxy float ghost-like among the clouds.

Observing his tribute, Gloss feels every bit the twenty-one year-old he actually is. That old lust revisits him, as mysterious and unfamiliar as an estranged friend. It isn't caused by Augustus' body or opalescent eyes — strangely, it’s the sharp, dangerous nature of his thoughts. For an instant, Gloss can almost imagine getting to choose who he lusts after; for an instant, he can almost imagine that the prostitution is happening to somebody else. 

On impulse, Gloss reaches the short distance across the aisle and touches two fingers to Augustus’ jaw, gently turning his head to face him. It’s an insignificant gesture, practical and objective. It somehow feels as intimate as if he kissed him open-mouthed. The boy’s eyes look nothing like Nikola’s did. Glossy, glittery-blue as candyfloss, they come as natural to One as the jewels in the mountains.

“Augustus. You’re going to win these Games as a legend among Victors — I have no doubt about it,” says Gloss. “I just need you to let me do my job.”

Just for an instant, Augustus’ hard gaze turns softer. That’s the thing about him — when he’s facing Gloss, he never does quite look away. He touches Gloss’ wrist and pulls his hand from his jaw, significantly careful.

“I’m gonna go see if Hypnos is awake,” Augustus murmurs. Then he rises to his feet, drags his fingers through his hair, and exits the booth. 

Some sweet brand of cologne lingers in Augustus’ wake — balsamic, vanilla, guaiac wood. The automatic doors trap Gloss in with the scent of it. Through the one-way window, Gloss sees Augustus graze the spot on his jaw. 

**:::**

**JULY 5TH, 2304**

Gloss could write a poem about the Chariot Hall; could drink in the silver walls and beautiful horses and sweet perfumes a thousand times over. Each stanza would be a floaty, wondrous thing, glittering as brightly as the bottomless Capitol sky. It hearkens back to the array of silver wires twisted and woven around Nikola; the crown of bright metal that encircled his onyx curls. 

Gloss could relive _that_ memory a thousand times over, too. He _has_ written poems about it — cryptic and subtle descriptions of constellations and metal and pretty, pretty skin. Nikola’s costume was radiant, Gloss remembers. As radiant, almost, as the shimmering diamond dust painted on Augustus’ flesh. 

One’s stylists — two sisters with similar names — stand tippy-toed on either side of the chariot, powdering the tributes’ cheeks with broad white brushes. Hypnos and Augustus are bathed in sheer robes, glowing faintly blue in the light. For the translucence of their clothing, they appear nearly naked, their skin almost silver with a thick, glittery gloss. Hypnos’ electric blue hair is set aglow by a vibrant crown of lights.

Of course, there is Blight. The sight of him, bearded, gentle, and kind, is no less jarring than it was when Gloss first kissed him and saw Nikola in his gaze. Gloss almost sees Nikola now, catching Blight’s eyes, though the image of him has aged. Blight smiles, of course. Same compassion; same odd, kind warmth. It sparkles with something painfully familiar.

They’ve slept together many times over the years. Sought one-another’s warmth in the dead of night, drifting to sleep under the stars beyond various windows. When Gloss needs him — needs Nikola — Blight has always understood. Always obliged him. Always climbed into his arms and smothered his senses in soft, warm skin.

It hasn’t happened in months.

Cecelia Bonham, a Victor from Eight, captures Blight’s attention before Gloss can smile back at him. Her kind doe eyes seem to turn his expression soft and watery. When he shakes her hand, he lingers too long, brushes her opposite elbow, looks at her significantly. As Gloss watches on, the image of Nikola bleeds away.

Married as she is, Blight has loved Cecelia for years, stealing precious moments, sharing smiles and stories and buttered pastries. Barred by her marriage, they’ve never acted on it, to Gloss’ knowledge. Though the two of them exchange whispers, Blight sweet, Cecelia reserved, their relationship is one of repressed desire.

It’s a soundless scene: Blight ghosts a kiss to her cheek, lingers too long, and Cecelia pulls gently away from him, her face dusted soft red. Then she politely smiles and returns to her tributes. There’s dejection in Blight’s eyes that shouldn’t surprise Gloss — a dark, watery shade on the brown.

Cashmere’s wavy blonde hair suddenly fills Gloss’ view. When she cranes her neck up at the chariot, Echo’s glowing blue crown twinkles on the whites of her eyes. “Thirty seconds. Hypnos, Augustus, you need to hold hands. If you’re going to be together, you’re going to be _together_. Play it up. Make it real.”

"It _is_ real," Augustus cloyingly says. He gives Hypnos a glittering grin. She giggles, bites her lip, turns red beneath her makeup.

When the Chariots launch, Hypnos’ blue crown streaks like fireworks through the glittering night. If Augustus is an angel, Hypnos is a fairy. They glitter together, bleeding light in their as they fly through the wild audience. Then Augustus faces her, places his hands on her waist, and kisses her shimmering mouth. Closed lips, closed eyes — an intimate kind of kiss. The crowd _roars_.

_“It’s the picture of innocence!” “Stunningly chivalrous!” “A fairytale like no other!”_

Of course, Hypnos buys it like a gullible teenager. She looks dazed, fluttering her lashes and grinning unabashedly.

Brilliant. Wonderful. Everything they planned.

Stubborn, arrogant Augustus plays a marvelous game of pretend.

**:::**

"I daresay the music industry is like a Hunger Games of its own," Sious Piaza says into a glass of champagne. "It's very cutthroat, if you will, for an aspiring artist. Where there are new birds, there are old hawks swarming where they aspire to be."

Gloss looks through him more than at him. His blood runs lava-hot, searing through his veins like magma cutting through a wall of ice. He sits splayed across one of Sious' emerald loveseats, his collar undone, half-undressed from the Chariots. There's an empty plate on the coffee table before him: fork, knife, mushrooms he pushed to the side.

Sious only casts glances at Gloss when he deigns to. Owing to a week of "dating," Sious seems to have grown bored of the sex, rambling every moment in between. His voice is traditionally beautiful in his music: a range that spans from baritone to tenor, lilting and cresting with uncanny ease. In person, the sound is utterly painful. 

"When I released my first record, it was like a bloodbath! I was scrambling to—"

Gloss' steak knife sails across the open space, thudding deep into the pristine wooden wall, level with Sious' head. It's quick, precise, as guiltlessly satisfying as landing a blade in Shimmer's chest. A twinkling drop of blood wells up on the outer shell of Sious' ear. It trickles down until, speechless, the man looks at Gloss and blots it away with a touch of his finger. Finally, _finally,_ too stunned to speak. An avox stands at the ready in the corner of the room, her eyes blown wide as she glances between them.

“I can’t get enough of you, Sious,” Gloss lies. He forces a sickly sweet grin against the wave of nausea threatening his dinner. He rises to his feet and rounds the coffee table towards Sious, who is utterly frozen in place. Then he passes himself to his knees in front of him, undoes Sious’ belt, and looks into his purple Capitol eyes. “You are extraordinary, you know that?”

Sious breathes a stunned, wary laugh. He ghosts a tentative hand through Gloss’ hair, and his eyelids flutter shut in response to Gloss’ warm breath between his legs. “Well, I—”

Gloss shuts him up with his mouth. He makes it fast, sloppy, and when he takes his leave, he spits the bitter seed into Sious’ sweet champagne. Sious insists on kissing him on the steps outside his mansion. Somewhere not too far away, there’s a click and a twinkle near the garden. Gloss expects he’ll see himself with Sious on the Capitol news tomorrow, his humiliation immortalized for all to see.

**:::**

There is no car, no bus, no taxi available this late at night. Holding one-another’s hand, the twin Victors choose the quietest paths through the Capitol’s streets, evading the nearby parades as they return to the Tribute Center. 

“It was worse this time than it was the last,” Cashmere says. The high collar of her dress bounces her curls as she walks barefoot, her crystal heels in hand. “He wanted me to tell him I love him. I don’t _love_ him. I don’t love any of these… freaks.” She chances a glance around the empty Capitol road and lowers her voice to a whisper beneath the music of a distant parade. “They disgust me. All of them smell like booze and sugar.”

“They look grotesque.”

“I don’t even want to breathe their air,” Cashmere concurs. She grips Gloss’ hand hard, their palms sweating together as her ivory nails bite into his skin. He rubs a soothing thumb over the back of her hand, silently willing her to take a breath. Uncannily, she does. 

“I nearly killed Sious tonight,” Gloss tells her. “He droned on and on about how the music industry is just like the Games. He said releasing his first record was like being in a bloodbath.”

Cashmere sharply scoffs. “What could he possibly know about bloodbaths?”

“Nothing. I threw a knife an inch from his head and pretended I was trying to seduce him.”

“You should’ve killed him,” Cashmere murmurs. 

Gloss breathes a hollow laugh. “And be taken away from you?”

He holds open a massive door for her to step through, and her bare footsteps softly echo on the Tribute Center’s fine granite floor. She looks exhausted, her eyes lined with fatigue even as she smiles at him. “I love you,” she says. Then they enter an elevator, take a deep breath, and ride to their floor in silence.

It’s well past dinner, far too late. The District One halls are shadowed and barren, colorless save for the furthest window that welcomes the blue midnight. Cashmere murmurs goodbye and turns into her room where the door hisses shut behind her. She always prefers to sleep immediately after her assignments. Gloss prefers to drink. 

In a high cabinet, there’s an airy chardonnay that reminds him of home. It tastes of light apples and sweet papaya, chased by faint strawberry that tingles the tongue. It sparkles in his glass, and when he downs the generous dose, he quickly fills it again. The sweet liquor barely passes his lips when a distant ring of piano keys leaks into the night.

He doesn’t know what he was expecting to find when he followed it. An avox, perhaps, playing a song from their District in the cover of dark. Colored silver-blue in the light of the stars, Augustus Braun is seated at a grand piano, his fingertips flying over the bright keys. His shadow bleeds over the page of the book open on the stand. It’s a book of poetry written by Gloss. In thick, swoopy lettering, the title of this particular poem reads, _‘Snowbird.’_

Augustus repeats strings of notes, singing lines over and over again as if trying to find a meter, a melody. Gloss’ poem sounds foreign on Augustus’ lips, sung with all the gentleness of a man quite unlike Augustus in every way. It’s an odd sight, and it evokes odd emotions.

“Is there a reason you’re up so late?” Gloss inquires. The song stops. 

“I didn’t think anyone else would be awake,” Augustus responds, casting a glance at Gloss before turning back to the piano. “I just needed to think.”

Gloss approaches the piano, letting his fingers ghost the bone-white keys. Gloss has always leaned on poetry. Uses it to describe the things that are indescribable; uses it to make sense of the bizarre. “So you turned to music,” he murmurs.

“I always do.” Augustus traces Gloss up and down as if seeing him in a new light. “I skimmed your poetry for something I thought I could turn into a song.”

Gloss takes a seat at the far end of the bench, placing his glass on the ground away from their feet. Augustus shifts an inch over. It grants them hardly any distance; their elbows gently brush. 

“Show me, then.” 

Augustus squares his shoulders, takes a breath, and lets his fingers fly over a stunning series of notes. It’s a simple melody turned vibrant; the keys he chooses are intricate and beautiful. 

_Atop the crags and cliffs, the blizzard roars_

_So we'll brave the storm just as we've done before_

_Fly me to the highest mountain_

_It is there, snowbird, where we will be restored_

_Childish laughter, throwing snow_

_Moonlit mountains, eyes aglow_

_Guide me far, snowbird, and fly me high_

_Give me everything that wealth could never buy_

_Share with me your friendship and your secrets_

_Until the very day we say goodbye_

_Jewelry boxes, braided hair_

_Rainbow frosting, taking dares_

_When the blizzard grows too fierce for weaker souls_

_Why, you spread your wings and plunge into the cold_

_Snowbird, I have seen them be inspired_

_In the presence of a heart so rich and bold_

_Silver smile, diamond soul_

_Make me bolder, keep me whole_

It’s stunning, the sound of it. Augustus’ voice commands the air, rich and smooth and deep — a sound that melted Gloss’ insides like quicksilver in the hand. There isn’t a voice in the world that could hold a candle to it. Gloss’ own writing, beautifully sung in a voice beyond compare. It riddles him speechless; spills goosebumps over his skin.

Finishing the final melody with one hand, Augustus ghosts his fingertips over the spot on his chin that Gloss had once touched. Rests his fingers there for a moment, and when he looks at Gloss, his blue eyes glitter in the faint glow of night. His gaze flickers down to Gloss’ mouth for exactly an instant, brief enough that Gloss could blink and miss it entirely.

But he doesn’t. Wishes he did. It brings an unfamiliar tightness to his chest. 

“Tell me who the snowbird is,” says Augustus. It’s a timely interruption to Gloss’ wandering thoughts.

Gloss looks out of the window, surveying the wild Capitol beneath the dark, dark sky. “Cashmere, my sister,” he tells him. “When she left for her Games, I saw her in the snowbird that circled the mountain. It always seemed as brave and alive as she is.”

Augustus nods, slow, awkward, like his chin is heavy. Breathes an uncomfortable laugh, looking for all the world like he’s struggling to find the proper words. “It's beautiful. Really. Now that I’ve read what you’ve written, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.”

"Surprised?”

“Surprised that you get around," Augustus says. Calmly, he closes the book of poetry and smooths his hand over the textured cover. "It isn’t any wonder why so many people in the Capitol are obsessed with you. Politicians, celebrities. You’re on television with someone new every week.”

The tension in Gloss’ chest immediately vanishes, as sudden and final as a thread being snipped. 

It occurs to him that he shouldn’t have made an effort. It’s a fruitless road, connecting with a tribute who’d either be dead or blinded by his own glory in a matter of days. It’s a shameful wonder that Augustus managed to evoke any emotions in Gloss at all. He’s the antithesis of Nikola: intelligent, but arrogant, amoral, opportunistic in every way. Gloss stands and takes a wide step away.

Impatient, Augustus sucks his teeth. “Look, I was just trying to—”

“You’re supposed to be with Hypnos.”

The tribute’s shoulders stiffen. “I’ve already tired her out.”

Of course, that shouldn't bother Gloss; shouldn’t make him feel oddly, indescribably bitter.

“And where were _you?_ ” Augustus challenges.

“Getting you _sponsors,”_ Gloss shoots. It’s too hard, too bitten, an octave too loud in the silent room. It earns him the scrutinizing burn of Augustus’ doubtful blue eyes. "Go to sleep. The curfew is at 10:00 — you know that."

"But _you_ get to bypass that, right?" Augustus bites. 

" _Go_."

Augustus pushes away from the piano, breathes one last bitter laugh, and dumps Gloss’ book unceremoniously onto the bench. Then he exits, soundless but for the distant hiss of his bedroom door closing behind him. The sudden reality of open space and deafening silence swallow Gloss whole. He casts his chardonnay into the sink. Closes his eyes, counts his breaths. In the clarity of quiet, he only thinks of Blight.

**:::**

There’s a distinctive scent of pinecones and tinder on the floor belonging to District Seven. Blight sits at the furthest side of a couch, playing chess by himself under a lamp’s dim glow. He casts his eyes up to Gloss, sensing his silent presence in the doorway. His gaze is darker, more watery than usual. Melancholy enough to perhaps warrant a strong drink. Of course, Blight never got into alcohol; didn’t want to turn out like Haymitch.

Sad though it is, Blight smiles with sincere fondness. “Up for a game?”

“No,” Gloss laughs softly; crosses his arms over his middle, uncharacteristically bashful. “I’m tired of losing, I’m afraid.”

“I’m not too exhausted to teach a quick lesson.”

“I’ll take a raincheck, yeah?” Gloss finds it in himself to _smile_. “I was wondering if you had any clients tonight, Blight.”

Blight’s hand stills over a black rook, his back shuddering with a long, slow breath.

“Your eyes are red,” Gloss continues. “I wasn’t sure if maybe you’d—”

“I’ve had a lot of bad nights recently.” Blight scrubs a hand over his face, breathes a harsh sigh, and continues the topic no further. For a while, Gloss silently watches him melt into his demons. There’s a bare, smooth sound of castles and queens dragging over the chessboard.

Gloss doesn’t think. Opens his mouth; blurts, “I just want you to be okay, Blight.”

Blight turns back to him. His gaze is heavy with a mixture of gratitude and meaning. Then he tips his head towards the hall. “Let’s go to my room.”

**:::**

“Oh god.” The breath goes out of Gloss in a hard sigh. “Jesus. _Fuck._ ”

The plush mattress dips and shudders beneath their bodies, the headboard softly bumping the wall like a heartbeat in the dark. The man moves tender and deep against him, slow and long and hot, his gentle mouth murmuring against Gloss' skin. Gloss imagines Nikola in the fingers woven in his, imagines a cloying cotton candy scent in Blight’s soft beard. On a particularly deep thrust, Gloss breathes a shaky moan, his head falling against the sheets. 

The world is decadence, stunning magic, comparable to nothing. Blight — Nikola — artlessly mouths at Gloss’ jaw, murmuring things like _‘beautiful, perfect, oh Gloss, god,’_ until they’re both trembling, breaking, moaning — and then spent.

Then they simply look at each-other, dark-eyed and stunned, tingling all over. It’s a long moment of soft, earthy eyes before Blight dips back down and kisses him. Deep, gentle, familiarly sweet for Blight, yet strangely mindful and present. It occurs to Gloss just exactly who Blight really is. It occurs to him in the fingers in his hair, the faint scent of pine — not candyfloss — in Blight’s beard. Neither of them break away for a long, long time. 

The world seems utterly hollow when they do, like nothing truly exists beyond the soft warmth of Blight’s mouth.

“Who were you thinking about?” Gloss murmurs into the dark. 

Blight told him years ago, whispering Cecelia Bonham’s name in his sleep. Theirs is an engagement as old as time: Gloss is Blight’s crutch and Blight is… Nikola. It’s a question Gloss shouldn’t have to ask — and he wouldn’t if Blight didn’t kiss him; didn’t moan Gloss’ name into the hollow of his throat. 

“I thought of you this time,” Blight whispers. His gaze is gentle, contented as he looks down at him. “I hope you don’t mind. I was getting tired of…”

“Holding on.”

Nikola’s sister wept on the platform beneath a massive image of her dead brother. Her father held her close and kissed her head. Gloss read straight from the script. It was Beetee Latier who told him how to pay for Nikola’s headstone. It was Blight who supplied the eucalyptus bouquet — something Gloss could set on Nikola’s fresh, black grave.

Nikola the medic. Nikola the friend.

Nikola is a ghost.

Blight smells of _wood_. His hair is _brown_. His skin is soft and warm and _alive_.

“It was better, Gloss,” Blight whispers. This close, his breath is a hot puff of air against Gloss’ mouth, sweet with some flavor of mint. “It was better this time, thinking of you.”

Gloss tangles his fingers in Blight’s hair; brings him into a chaste, soft kiss. “I don’t mind if you think of me,” he tells him. “Think of me all you want.”

“I will.”

**Author's Note:**

> The concept of Panacea Pills is inspired by Crimsonsenya's beautiful story, [Ariadne's Thread.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8556211/chapters/19617025#workskin)


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